Chapter 5 - The Basement Tunnel and the Red Ribbon
Leo’s hand remained dangerously close to his holster, the heavy silence in the bedroom stretching like a pulled rubber band about to snap. The air grew thick with the scent of antiseptic and impending violence.
"She was just cleaning the floor, Leo," Liam interjected, his voice dropping into its cold, authoritative commander tone, pulling Leo’s attention away from me for a crucial second. "Unless your security manual forbids sweeping dust near the bedpost, back off."
Leo’s eyes flickered between Liam and me, weighing the tension in the room. He didn't buy the excuse—not entirely—but he also knew better than to push a cornered Liam Mercer too hard while the wound was still fresh.
"The supply inventory check can wait until morning," Leo said slowly, his eyes lingering on the scuffed child’s shoe for one more beat before he stepped backward toward the door. "But remember, Miss Hayes. The perimeter gates are locked, the woods are monitored, and nobody leaves this estate without my thumbprint on the manifest. Don't test me."
The door clicked shut, sealing us back in our tense, isolated bubble.
I let out a shaky breath I didn't realize I’d been holding, my knees suddenly feeling weak. "That was too close."
"He suspects you," Liam said, his gaze intense. "Which means you don't have until Friday. Vance returns from Chicago tomorrow night, and once he reviews the security logs, he’ll know you opened those curtains. If you're going to the boathouse, it has to be tonight—while the shift change happens at midnight."
"How do I get down without tripping the alarms?" I asked, my practical nurse's brain overriding the fear.
"The laundry chute in the back hallway," Liam whispered, motioning toward the small wooden door near the bathroom. "It drops straight into the old linen cellar beneath the kitchens. From there, a drainage tunnel leads directly to the boathouse. It was built during prohibition to move cargo off the river without drawing federal eyes. Vance thinks it's sealed off with concrete, but the masonry is old. You can push the brick out from the inside."
Thirty minutes later, with a small penlight clenched between my teeth and my scrub pockets stuffed with sterile gauze and a bottle of antiseptic, I slipped out of Liam’s room while he feigned sleep.
The service hallway was pitch black, smelling of damp stone and old bleach. I found the laundry chute—a narrow, metal-lined drop that looked entirely uninviting. Without giving myself time to second-guess, I squeezed into the opening and slid downward in a rush of cold air and sliding friction, landing with a muffled thud in a pile of industrial linen bags at the bottom.
The cellar was a labyrinth of stacked crates and rusted shelving. Following Liam’s whispered instructions, I navigated past the giant water heaters until I found the damp stone wall at the back. Sure enough, a square section of brickwork near the floor had been patched with loose mortar.
With a few firm shoves using the heel of my boot, the mortar crumbled, and the bricks gave way, opening into a dark, wind-swept concrete tunnel that smelled strongly of river water and rotting reeds.
Crouching low, I switched on my penlight and moved forward through the damp darkness. The beam cut through the swirling dust, illuminating old wooden crates stamped with faded shipping labels from thirty years ago.
After five minutes of walking, I reached the end of the tunnel where a heavy iron grate looked out over the dark, choppy waters of the river. Next to the grate sat the boathouse—a small, weather-beaten wooden structure built out over the water on wooden pilings.
I pushed against the rusted iron grate. It groaned loudly, protesting the movement, but finally swung open with a rusty shriek.
I slipped out onto the wooden dock attached to the boathouse. The night air was freezing, biting through my thin scrubs, but I pressed forward, sliding open the side door of the boathouse.
The interior was illuminated only by the pale moonlight filtering through dirty glass skylights. Rows of fishing gear, old boat engines, and canvas tarp-covered machinery filled the space. But in the center of the room sat a large oak desk covered in leather-bound ledgers and stacks of financial documents.
I rushed forward, flicking on my penlight to examine the top ledger. As I flipped open the heavy cover, a flash of bright crimson caught my eye from beneath a stack of banking statements on the corner of the desk.
It was a piece of silk ribbon—tied neatly into a bow.
Attached to the ribbon was a small plastic ID badge belonging to a pediatric nurse named Chloe Hayes—my mother’s younger sister, Sarah, whose full legal name was Sarah Chloe Hayes.
My breath caught in my throat. My aunt hadn't just disappeared in Chicago twenty years ago; she had been brought here. And the ledger beneath her badge didn't contain financial records of a mafia gang—it contained adoption papers, trust fund transfers, and medical files bearing Vance’s signature.
Before I could pick up the badge, a cold voice echoed from the shadows behind me.
May you like
"I wondered how long it would take a Hayes to find her way back to where she belongs."
I froze. I slowly turned around, shining my penlight into the darkness. Standing by the door with a silenced pistol raised and aimed directly at my chest was Leo.
